


you're a fucking nightmare (but you're mine)

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amoral Stiles Stilinski, Bad Alpha Laura Hale, Based on a Tumblr Post, Child Abuse, Dark fic, Dubious Parenting at best, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Feral Behavior, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Non-Linear Narrative, Pack Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:37:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: What do you get when you pair a rogue emissary with a feral Alpha?A fucking nightmare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/gifts).



> Ok, so like a million years ago, I saw
> 
>  
> 
> [this gif set](https://twothumbsandnostakeincanon.tumblr.com/post/174621338167/prettiestcaptain-what-do-you-get-when-you-pair-a)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> on Tumblr. And then I read the fucking amazing tags from Twothumbs. And this happened.  
> That's it, that's all I've got.

 

Stiles’ skin was itchy with dried come and blood, and his eyes were gritty with the urge to sleep, a bone deep exhausted tug that he wanted to indulge in, while his magic jumped, manic, under his skin. 

Peter was sleeping already, his arm thrown possessively over Stiles’ hip, claw tipped hand holding on tight. Stiles watched him for a moment, soaking in the sight of him close and at peace, the tense lines on his face smoothed away, the scars shiny in the moonlight, his usually smirking lips relaxed into something almost peaceful. 

He never saw Peter like this, anymore. Seeing it now is as soothing as it is disturbing, and Stiles presses against his wards for a moment, checking them--because he would kill, to keep this soft, peaceful version of his wolf safe from the world beyond their den. 

Peter stirred at the hum of magic, but didn’t wake, too accustomed to Stiles’ practicing spells while he slept nearby. 

For just a heartbeat, it felt like no time had passed. Like they were still those young, untouchable creatures from before the fire. Stiles blinked, and the blood, arterial spray that caught in Peter’s hair, comes into focus, and he remembers, abruptly. 

Sighs and carefully pets the silent ‘wolf. 

He was sleeping still and quiet, for once, no nightmares to disturb him, and Stiles presses a kiss to his hair, before he snuggled closer to the werewolf, and fell asleep, safe in the arms of his monster. 

~*~

When Stiles is six, his mother stands him in front of the Hale house, in front of the proud, starkly beautiful alpha and he feels something in him  _ jump _ in recognition, and she smiles, a slow pleased thing, before she nods and beckons him forward. “You’re too young yet and you need training, little Spark.”

Stiles scowls and spits, “That’s not my name. I’ve got a  _ name.”  _

Talia blinks, startled and disconcerted and behind her, a mocking laugh rose, making her features tighten and her lips purse. 

“Very well. Brother, since you find  _ Stiles’ _ defiance so amusing, maybe you are best to accompany him.”

“Is that meant to be a threat, sister?” Peter drawls, coming to wrap an arm around his Alpha’s waist, eyeing the boy in front of him with interest. 

Talia scowls, and turns her attention to Stiles’ mother, effectively dismissing both her future emissary and her Left Hand. While they speak of his training, of the long years under Deaton’s tutelage, the summers spent in the nemetons, Peter comes up to Stiles, still glaring and crouches in front of him. 

“Tell me, Stiles. Do you want to be our Emissary?” 

Stiles blinks at him, eyes beta bright and wide staring into Peter’s ice blue ones, amused and assessing. 

“Yes,” Stiles says, simply, and it’s not the same, not his spark leaping in recognition of Talia’s--but it’s important, somehow. Peter nods and grins as he straightens, and wraps an arm companionably around Stiles’ narrow shoulders, steering him toward his sulky nephew and terror of a niece. 

~*~

The hospital is quiet and eerie as he slips through the halls. He isn’t supposed to be here. Last time he was caught here, Dad sent him back to the nemetons for three months, and Stiles is pretty sure he was a few weeks from going crazy--actually  _ crazy _ , not the slightly off balanced he’s been most of his life. 

Still. Knowing the risks, knowing how  _ pissed _ Dad will be if he’s caught here--he still came. He’s tried staying away and it’s worse, when he does. 

The last stint with the druids did more than just drive him to the brink of sanity though--he moves unseen, a simple spell making the orderlies and nurses’ gaze slide right off him like water, and he gets to the quiet room in the middle of the hall without any trouble. The door creaks a little, familiar and annoying, as he slips inside, but then the familiar scent of ash and honeysuckle rushes up to him, mixed with medicine and cleaner, and he closes his eyes, swaying a little under the onslaught of  _ fury. _

He smiles, and turns back to his wolf, and the bright cord that tethers him to sanity, that tethers him to madness flares as he stares. 

It shouldn’t be like this, he thinks. 

His fingers flex and lighting jumps, harmless and deadly, before he clenches his fist and smoothers the power. 

It shouldn’t be like this, but it’s the fucking hand they got, and he’s going to fix it, even if it kills him. 

The furious throbbing cord falters, and terror washes down at him, so sudden and suffocating he can’t breath. 

He feels like he’s most alive, when he can’t breath. 

“Hi, Peter,” he breathes, and slips into bed next to his comatose wolf, slides his fingers under his sheets to wrap around his wrist and eerie blue lines trace into the other man’s veins as he shudders. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles glances over his shoulder once before he murmurs and the spell falls over him. They’ve been so careful so far--and as impatient as he is to get to Peter, it wouldn’t do to lead someone back to the den now, not when they were so damn close to their goal. 

He wanders through the woods and road, wrapped up in his spell, and when he was satisfied that no one was following him, Stiles turned to the abandoned housing development on the end of Beacon Hills. He doesn’t hurry, just moves quiet and steady, until he’s climbing the steps to a half finished house that no one but he and Peter has been in for six months or more. 

The werewolf is reading on the mess of sheets and pillows that he’s claimed as his bed, and Stiles let’s the spell fall away as he steps into the room, grinning when ice blue eyes flick to him. 

“Brought you dinner,” he says, cheerfully and something almost like a smile flickers on the edges of his mouth. 

Peter hums his approval and rolls to his feet in that sinuous move that Stiles loves, and can never quite replicate, and Peter smirks, like he knows exactly what the boy is thinking. He comes up behind Stiles as the boy lays out their dinner, greasy burgers and fries, a thick bloody steak, chicken wings and two fat slices of pie. Peter’s hands slide around Stiles waist, hugging him back against the older man’s front, his chin hooking over Stiles’ shoulder as he watches Stiles fuss over the food. 

Stiles bites down on his lip, twists his head a little and Peter’s lips brush his cheek. “Lemme go. You need to eat.” 

“You can feed me like this,” Peter mumbles, and Stiles sighs. It will be that kind of day then. He tugs and pulls at Peter until he’s curled into Stiles’ side, pliant and warm, clinging as Stiles feeds him, tiny bites of burgers and french fries that Peter chases with his lips and tongue, licking the salt from Stiles fingers. 

He feeds the werewolf and himself, until Peter hums sleepily, and there are only scraps left, and the Peter drags him back to the nest of blankets, pushes him down and draps himself over Stiles, breathing in the scent of him. 

Sometimes, Peter still gets like this. 

It’s not as often anymore--right after he woke up, he clung to Stiles for days on end, shaking and whining, claws pricking Stiles skin. Now, he does it when he gets too lost in his head, in the screams of his dead family and the crackling flames. 

Stiles knows. He knows because he can hear them too, can feel every emotion Peter fights echoing down the bond, and he wonders sometimes, how Peter can function. 

He lays there, his wolf pressed to his throat, rage and grief burning through them both, and Stiles thinks that this is better. 

This is so much  _ better _ than every eternal year that they were both alone.  

 

~*~

 

The other kids at school are scared of him. 

He knows it, in the way they watch him sidelong on the playground. In the way none will get too close to him. He plays alone, twirling on the swings and chasing the happy glowing bonds in his mind as clouds scuttle overhead. 

Scott stays close to him. Stiles thinks his parent would worry about him more, if he didn’t have the pack and Scott. 

But he does. 

The other kids at school are scared of him, but none of them come near him, tease or bully him. Because the wary feeling they might not understand around the boy--it’s nothing compared to the feeling they get when the doors to the school burst open and they spill out, sticky faced and happy, into their mother’s minivans and father’s trucks, and impatient siblings clunky barely running cars and see what's waiting for him.

Stiles--Stiles never runs. He walks, quiet and sure, a tiny private smile on his face as he approaches the young dark haired man waiting on the picnic tables for him. 

“Stiles,” the young man greets him, and Stiles tips his head, birdlike, staring for a long moment before he laughs, high and giddy and throws himself at the man, giggling and burrowing into his arms as he stands. 

They leave like they’re the only people in the world, like the children Stiles goes to school with, their parents and teachers aren’t watching them. 

Stiles chatters happily about his day at school and the young man bears him effortlessly away, his head dipped, listening intently. 

Most days--they walk away and never notice the world around them. 

But once. Just once. Stiles came down the steps with a black eye and a frantic Scott at his shoulder. 

There were no smiles that day. Peter--the students have heard Stiles call him Peter--crouched down, and a noise, wild and dangerous rumbled through the schoolyard. 

“Who?” Peter demands and Stiles smiles. Shakes his head and Peter snarls. He dips close, almost a hug but not quite, and when he lifts his head, his gaze is unfocused, almost--almost--

His eyes snap open and lock on a boy with bloody knuckles and a terrified expression and he  _ snarls. _

“Peter!” Stiles shouts, and his voice…

His voice echoes and roars, impossibly  _ big  _  and Peter flinches, gaze snapping to Stiles. He huffs and scoops the boy up, retreating silently. 

And the next day, the little boy was cradling a broken arm. 

No one forgot it, even as the years slip away. Stiles’ changing voice, Peter’s feral anger, the pulse of  _ danger _ that filled up the schoolyard for a moment, before Peter carried him away. 

No one forgot it. And it scared them away. 

But no one ever touched Stiles again, either. 

 

~*~

 

He doesn’t remember the first few months after the fire. He knows he woke his father screaming, the night the Hale House burned, knows he ran through the forest and right into the house, and that when the firefighters dragged him out, he was wrapped around Peter, or Peter was wrapped around him--he never could tell and never gathered enough courage to ask. 

He finds out, later, that he spent a month in the hospital, recovering from his burns. But even after he’s released, he’s not  _ there _ . 

He tries to explain it to his father, later. That the fire didn’t just kill his pack--it broke his bonds. 

Deaton explains it a little better.  _ Magic needs an anchor, John. And Stiles--his spark is raw, unchecked magic. And without the pack to anchor him, he’s adrift. It will drive him mad, if he doesn’t anchor himself. The spark needs to be bound.  _

Stiles shudders, when he hears that Deaton suggested that. 

John doesn’t--Claudia had always been vehament that Stiles didn’t need to be bound, just reined in. That with the right pack, he would be powerful but never  _ dangerous _ . And John couldn’t imagine inflicting more trauma on his already comatose son. 

Stiles doesn’t remember any of that, but he hears about it, in snatches, after he wakes. 

Because he does, he wakes in his bed one Sunday morning, three months after the fire, and sits up, and he doesn’t scream. 

Despite the yawning emptiness in his chest where his pack should be, despite the thin, transparent bonds where Laura and Derek should be, he doesn’t scream. 

He just sits there, panting in his bed, and finally stumbles downstairs on weak legs and into the kitchen where his father stares at him like he’s seen a ghost, and Stiles demands, “Where is Peter?” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Peter is quiet, as Stiles spreads the papers out for him. 

It’s not hard, to lay it out. It was even easier to find the information. Still--Peter touches the spell with one finger and suppresses the shiver that wants to chase down his spine. 

Arches an eyebrow at the boy in front of him. “Can you actually do this?” 

Stiles bristles and lifts a hand, letting sparks flick off his fingertips. “Are you doubting me?” 

“No,” Peter says, slowly. “More wondering what the cost is.” 

Damn smart wolf. 

Peter would pick up on that, that it would  _ cost _ something. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles says, dismissive and Peter grumbles, angrily. Flashes blue eyes at Stiles. “It’s mine to pay, Peter. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Tell me.” It’s not a demand, and that’s why Stiles sighs and capitulates. 

Because he adores Peter, and he has never been able to refuse the werewolf. 

They’re each other’s biggest weakness and greatest strength, both. 

“It binds us. The magic is dark, right? And I can give it to you, force it to you--but it’s going to take something from me, and we’ll be bound.” 

Peter looks... _ hungry _ . He catches Stiles by the wrist, draws him close, until he can nose at the boy’s throat. “That’s not a price, sweetheart.” 

“It is,” Stiles’ voice trembles, just a little. “If I--It’s our lifeforce, Peter. If I do this, we’re bound for life. I die, you die.” 

Peter stares at him, and his eyes are brilliantly blue. “I wouldn’t live without you, anyway.” 

Stiles presses a kiss to the werewolf’s forehead, and smiles. “Then we do it,” he says, shakily and Peter smiles, scars twisting in pleasure and promise. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles presses into Peter’s side. 

He’s been around the pack for three months, now, and he never wanders far from Peter’s side, seems to take comfort in the ‘wolf’s closeness. 

Derek and Cora have almost stopped trying to engage the boy. “Do you not like them?” Peter asks, one days, while he watches Stiles braiding daisies. 

Stiles frowns, deeply, and shakes his head. “No, they’re nice. Derek needs to smile more.” 

“Then what is it, little one?” 

Stiles finishes his daisy crown and clambers up, clumsy as he crawls into Peter’s lap and sets the crown on his messy hair. “They’re not you,” Stiles says simply. 

And it was that simple. 

That simple and that complicated. Talia had made the boy Peter’s charge, his to guard and protect and Stiles--Stiles made himself Peter’s shadow, the ever present warm body that nestled against him. 

So it wasn’t unusual for Stiles to press into Peter now, a little shy and quiet without his mother’s presence, and meeting someone new. 

Deaton is ignoring them, talking to Talia, and Peter is content to stand out of the way, with his little shadow tight at his side. 

“I don’t like him,” Stiles says softly, softly enough that only Peter hears him. 

He tilts a look down at the boy. “Why not?” 

Stiles stares at the vet, and he finally turns, looks at Stiles, and something sharp and powerful flares in Stiles’ gaze, his little hands clenching into fists, before Peter scoops the boy into his arms. 

“Talia, I’ll say it again--the boy is dangerous.” 

“He’s a  _ child _ , Alan,” Talia says, exasperated. 

Deaton doesn’t look away from Stiles, his face tucked into Peter’s throat. “It doesn’t matter. Children grow up.” He pauses, and then, “If you insist on keeping him, at least give him a safer guide than Peter.” 

Stiles jerks upright and his eyes are gleaming,  _ glowing _ , golden as he glares at Deaton. “Peter is  _ mine,” _ he hisses. He  _ reaches-- _

The wolves in the room  _ jerk _ at the boy’s words, and Stiles’ eyes go wide and startled as he twists to look at Peter, tugging a the bond blooming in his head, almost enough to drown out his pack bonds, his bonds to the  _ alpha. _ A flood of fond amusement and proprietary affection comes coursing through him, bright and sharp edged and instantly recognizable. “ _ Peter,”  _ he breathes, and Peter laughs, because this boy. 

This brilliant, beautiful boy was going to shake up everything in their pack. 

“I suppose,” Talia says, gingerly testing the oddly muted bond she shares with her brother, “that it’s a little too late for that.” 

Deaton sighs. 

 

~*~

 

He reads. 

Sometimes, when the screaming gets too loud, he can’t read, all he can do is curl in his bed, hands pressed to his ears, rocking and sobbing. 

But most days, he can function, he can  _ read, _ and he devours every book he can get his hands on. He steals into Deaton’s office and snags the tomes the vet won’t let him near, and curls in the tunnels of the Hale house, reading them by the light of his Coleman. 

He breaks into Peter’s apartment and packs up every electronic he finds, every book and notebook and a few shirts that smell, faintly, of Peter, and takes it all home. It’s a little harder, to keep the apartment in Peter’s name, but a little clever hacking and well worded emails, and it’s done. 

It settles something in him, that he has that retreat. 

He reads everything, and sometimes, he isn’t even sure what he’s looking for. 

He only knows that Peter is lost in his mind, screaming fury and pain and Stiles feels helpless and  _ needs _ to do something,  _ anything _ to fix it. 

To fix what the fire broke. 

He reads everything and he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, until he finds it. 

The spell is...simple. 

It’s simple and elegant, and it’s  _ dark. _

But. He studies it. 

Deaton said he needed an anchor, something to ground his magic, to replace his broken bonds. 

This--this could do it. 

Because it’s been three years since the fire, and he still feels adrift. He still feels like he’s lost, packless and unbound, a fount of magic untapped and unfocused. 

It terrifies the druids in the nemetons. 

It terrifies Deaton. 

Sometimes, Stiles thinks it terrifies his father, when he wakes up and the whole house is shaking and Stiles is locked in a silent scream as flames flicker, ghostly, around him. 

He wakes, with quickly fading burns, and no recollection of the nightmares, but he sees the fear in his father’s gaze. 

The spell is simple and elegant and Stiles could do it in his sleep. It’s only the price that makes him hesitate. 

But in the end, it’s not a question. 

He can bring Peter back, can pull him from the coma, and all it will take, is a few more scars on Stiles’ soul. 

It’s a twisted, scarred thing he has no use for--what are a few more? 


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles sits on a rock near Lookout point, and waits, while the moon rises. A wolf howls, low and triumphant, deep in the woods, and he smiles, pleased. It’s been years since a wolf howled in Beacon Hills, and Stiles sighs, impatiently.  

A thrum of wet heat and startling violence pings down the thick bond that ties them, and he makes a face. 

He’s never been a fan of the pack killing on the full moon, especially not Bambi. 

Still, there’s something pleased and sated in Peter as he lumbers out of the forest, his muzzle wet and claws dripping, and Stiles thinks, he should be afraid. 

Peter’s mind is wide open to him, a side effect of the magic Stiles has worked, and he  _ knows _ the werewolf is nowhere close to sane, is driven by instinct and barely controlled bloodlust. 

He  _ knows _ how dangerous Peter is. 

But Peter comes to him, wraps around his back, his claws dragging over his belly and hips, leaving bloody trails behind and presses his muzzle into Stiles throat, almost purring as Stiles buries his fingers in the werewolf’s fur--he feels safer than he has in three years. 

 

~*~

 

“Do you ever see things, that aren’t real?” 

Peter looks at his little charge, drawing next to him while he pages through a history on the Ito pack. 

“Do you?” he asks, curiously, and Stiles glares at him. He is seven now, and Peter thinks Talia will send him to the nemetons soon. 

She hasn’t yet, content to let Deaton guide him, content to let him adapt to the pack. But Peter sees the power sparking in his boy, and it worries him, that soon he will be gone, beyond the bounds of Peter’s protection. 

“Sometimes,” Stiles says, and Peter watches him, his shaggy head bent over the picture he’s drawing, his lip caught by small sharp teeth. 

Stiles doesn’t tell him what he sees, starts talking instead about the cookies that his mother made, and Peter listens quietly, tucking away that piece of knowledge. 

He doesn’t tell Talia. 

She trusts Deaton, too much, and a visionary with the power of a spark--Deaton would kill him. 

Peter snarls, softly, at even the idea of a threat to his boy. 

But it’s easy to forget. Easy to tuck away. Stiles is a happy, flailing boy with too much power and a habit of diving headfirst into trouble, with Scott at his side, and it’s easy to forget, sometimes, just  _ how _ powerful he is. 

Until the night Stiles calls him, drags him from sleep with a tear choked voice. “You’re all going to die,” he whispers, and Peter feels the cold chill of  _ truth _ slide down his spine. 

 

~*~

 

His dad worries. 

Constantly. 

Stiles sees it, when he sees anything. 

He sees the bottle of whiskey, on the table, when he stumbles down in the mornings, and he  _ knows _ he’s freaking his dad out. 

The thing is--he doesn’t want to. 

His dad is all that is keeping him sane, his dad and the too short visits to Peter, stolen between practice and when his dad gets home. 

“Do you want Scott to come over?” John asks. He’s  _ trying _ , the books abandoned upstairs as he cooks dinner, as he sits across from his dad with hands that tremble a little, and eats, carries on a conversation that is almost normal. 

Stiles makes a face. “No. He’s--no.” 

“Stiles,” John huffs. 

“Dad, he won’t understand.” 

“He could try,” John says and Stiles laughs. It sounds bitter and ancient, even to him, and he sees the way it makes his dad go pale and anxious. 

“How? How the  _ hell _ can he  _ try? _ He doesn’t even know werewolves exist, how is he going to understand waking up screaming because my pack bonds shattered? How is he going to understand feeling it, feeling them die, because that’s what it means, to be theirs? How is he going to understand I am going fucking  _ insane _ because I don’t have a pack to anchor my magic?” 

“Stiles,” John starts. 

“ _ No one understands, Dad,”  _ he screams, and he’s aware there’s tears on his cheeks, that lights are bursting above them. “ _ No one _ because they’re all fucking  _ dead!”  _

He makes an ugly noise, and he isn’t even sure when he stood, when he pulled away from the table, but he is aware that as the first sob catches him, folds him in half with the gut wrenching force of it, his dad is there, his dad’s arms are wrapping around him and holding him, keeping him steady and held together when everything else is a shattered mess that  _ hurts _ every goddamn time he breathes. 

He cries, messy and loud, in his father’s arms, until he’s limp and wrung out, and all he can feel is exhaustion, tugging at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, then and John pets his hair. 

“I want someone to help you. You can’t do this alone, kiddo.” 

There  _ is _ no one. His two healthy packmates fled, and Peter--he shies away from the thought of Peter, too desperate and broken to think about him right now. 

“What about Deaton?” John says, hopefully. 

Stiles closes his eyes. When stuck between Deaton and Eichen House--because he  _ knows _ that’s lingering on the horizon, like a fucking nightmare misma--neither are good options, but. Better the devil he knows, or the one that doesn’t come with locked doors and visiting hours. 

“Ok,” he agrees, and settles deeper into his father’s embrace. 

Next time, he’ll have his meltdown in Peter’s arms. Because he’s very sure that while his dad might be less worried,  _ he _ has more to worry about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies! I was traveling and had family visiting, and this chapter is late. But there will be a regular update again on Friday!


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure?”

Stiles pushes past him, irritable. Peter asks, but he does it with the voice that vibrates with need and want, and they both _know_ he’s sure.

“I’ve been sure for longer than you,” Stiles snaps, and Peter bares his teeth. Long, white, too sharp teeth with blood still on them.

The dead body of Kate’s arsonist is still cooling in the woods, and Peter’s stumbling under the weight of his shift, and the bloodlust.

He closes his eyes and Stiles can _feel_ the fire, licking over his skin and the bonds shattering under the weight of wolfsbane smoke.

“Peter,” he says, urgently, and Peter snarls, presses into him.

“Sweetheart, she’ll come for you, for this. She’ll come to kill you.”

Deaton said, find an anchor. Something to bind your magic to. And ‘wolves, they need an anchor too.

“I’m sure. We need this.”

Sometimes, Stiles isn’t sure if they’re anchoring each other or if they’re drowning each other. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t care. Together they might destroy themselves and everything around them, but together, they’re _almost_ whole.

“Do it,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles sighs.

It should be harder than it is. He thinks, it's only easy because only emissaries are taught _how_ to do it, and no rogue emissary would survive long enough to do this to their alpha.

But he’s not any emissary, and his isn’t any alpha.

“I can do it,” he told Peter, that first time he proposed it, confidant and unwavering. “How do you think the spark moves from one Alpha to the next when they’re not fighting for it. I have the pack bond.”

“She won’t forgive you. Not ever, not for this.”

“Doesn’t matter. She isn’t fit to be an alpha, Peter, she _abandoned_ you.”

Peter’s eyes had flared blue at that, all furious, helpless rage.

He reaches out now, delves into the weak pack bonds he’s spent years ignoring because they’ve spent years ignoring him. He ignores the weak, beta bond, registers only that a continent away, Derek is sleeping.

The other though.

It’s thicker. Weak, and rotted, but thicker, pulsing with a spark of power that makes a feral smile spread across his lips.

It’s easy, to pluck that spark free, to drag it from her and in the empty echoes where his pack should be, it flares, the alpha spark _burns_ but this--this is a burn he _wants_ , a burn Peter will revel in, and Stiles’ eyes shine as he _shoves_ it into his bond with Peter.

A scream fills his mind, and a triumphant howl fills the Preserve, and Stiles feels it, feels the bond with Peter thickening, intoxicatingly strong and dragging him into Peter, and he manages to gasp, “ _Alpha.”_

Red eyes latch onto him and he drops, black oblivion rushing up to meet him.

~*~

“You’re upset with me,” Peter says, and Stiles hitches his bag higher on his shoulders, glaring at the ground in front of him.

If he thought he could, he’d run home and ignore Peter altogether, but that would upset Dad and Alpha Talia, and last time he upset both of them, he spent the summer cleaning out Deaton’s cat cages and weeding his herb garden.

He learned a lot about runes and the proper care of plants that would be _very_ useful later in life, but it wasn’t the ideal way to spend any amount of time.

“Stiles, if you don’t talk to me, I can’t fix it,” Peter says.

It would be better, Stiles thinks, if he weren’t so patient. If he treated Stiles like a little kid, annoying and bothersome, and not--

He scowls harder and Peter huffs.

“Are you coming to dinner tomorrow?”

“Will you even be there?” Stiles snaps, and Peter stills.

His face burns, and he looks away.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter asks, slowly, watching the boy.

His lips clamp shut again, and he starts walking, faster now, and if Peter cares, he’ll have to keep up.

He ignores Peter as he stomps upstairs, and ignores him when the wolf comes to his door with a snack.

He ignores him all night, until John comes home and Peter slips into his room.

“I know I wasn’t home, last week. Derek probably told you I was on a date.” Stiles stiffens, glaring at his book, but Peter doesn’t let him talk. “And I know you don’t like change. It makes sense you’d be pissed because I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Stiles. I should have.”

“Did you like her?” he demands, and then flushes, because he doesn’t know _why_ he asked that.

“Yes. I do like him,” Peter says, honestly, and something in Stiles lurches at that.

_Him._

“Do you like him more than me?”

Peter’s eyes widen and he moves, scooping Stiles into his lap and settling on the bed. The wolf presses Stiles close, a whine in his throat as he scent marks the boy, as he presses Stiles to his throat.

“No, little one. _Never.”_

Stiles clings to him, and whispers, “You can’t leave me, Peter. Not you. You _can’t.”_

“I won’t, sweetheart. Not ever. I’m yours, remember?”

Stiles smiles then, presses his tears to Peter’s chest and caresses the bond he formed, in Deaton’s office, that gleams golden and bright between them.

~*~

The druids are waiting, when John pulls the car to a stop. Stiles stares out at them, his face blank, and his fingers clenched.

_Alone, alone, I’m so--don’t go, please, the children--_

He blinks and he’s not in the car, he’s in the woods, dark and clustered around him. He can feel magic, feel it in the vibrations off the earth and the way the trees grow.

Usually it’s soothing, if a little creepy, but right now--

“Dad, please--”

John stares at him, deeply unhappy. “I can’t keep you safe, at home. And you can’t control it, not without training.”

“I’ve _been_ trained!”

“Spark,” Lilith murmurs, swaying closer. “You have much to learn, still.”

“I can’t be here,” Stiles shouts, and in his mind, a scream rises with him.

“You will die, Spark. You will die, with your broken bonds and your broken packmate and your drifting soul. Will you resign yourself to that? Will you resign your ‘wolf to that?”

Stiles deflates, all of the fight draining away and he shakes his head, tears burning in his eyes.

“How long?” he asks, his voice dull and empty.

Lilith smiles, serene and cool, “As long as is necessary.”

He doesn’t ask again. He follows her to the bungalow he’ll live in, the one he shares with Peter every summer he’s sent here, and slips into the linen pants and shirt that novices wear, and he hugs his dad.

“Don’t let him stay there alone. Just--visit him, ok? _Please.”_

“I will. Don’t worry about him--you need to worry about yourself. Ok? I’ll see you soon, kid.”

Stiles clings to him and doesn’t answer, but he says, as his father drives away. “It won’t be soon, will it?”

Lilith touches his wrist and her eyes flare at the raw power coursing through him, the unbound magic. “No, Spark,” she says, finally. “It will not be soon.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the tags, loves. This chapter gets a bit rough for little Stiles.

“ _Stiles_.”

Peter’s voice is eerie, and commanding, the note he learned when he was seven and a pack invaded Beacon Hills, the note he knew when he was ten and a kelpie was dragging him into the water of the lake.

It’s the note he knows means _danger_ and _obey._

His head snaps up and he throws his magic out, a rippling circle that ran out and out and--it slams into a werewolf, and Stiles’ eyes fly open, glowing golden to meet his Alpha’s furious red eyes.

“She’s here,” he whispers.

They run.

Peter holds him, braced against his broad back, half shifted and the wind whipping through his hair, fur coarse against his cheeks, and it feels like flames are at their feet.

A furious howl, closer than before, and Peter snarls, wet and furious.

He clings to his wolf, to his alpha and wraps them in as much magic as he can, layers every protective spell and charm the druids and Deaton ever taught him over them both.

He falls from Peter’s back as the alpha leaps into the clearing, and he shouts, throwing a crackling electric shield between them before they can slam into each other.

Peter snarls, rage and betrayal battering at him through their bond, fueling his own.

Because Laura.

Laura looks _good._ She’s wearing a fitted leather jacket, a top the color of wine that looks almost black in the night sky, and tight jeans that show off her healthy curves. Her eyes are bright and her face flushed, and she looks _healthy._

Furious, but healthy.

Stiles trembles, because where _was_ she? While he was losing his mind, drugged to oblivion in Eichan and trapped in the nemetons, when he was screaming himself awake and creeping into Peter’s room, and Peter was going mad, rotting away and forgotten--

“Where _were_ you?” he hisses, and she spares him a look.

“Did you do it? How the fuck did you--that was _mine.”_

 _“_ Didn’t deserve it,” Stiles mumbles, feeling Peter’s fury building.

“You don’t understand,” Laura snaps.

“Explain it, Niece. Explain what the actual fuck can make abandoning your pack _acceptable.”_

“You have no idea what we went through, Peter! I was an alpha and Derek--he was reeling, from Paige and K--” she bit off her words, but Stiles jerked around, his eyes wide as he stares at her.

“And I was trapped in a burnt body with shattered pack bonds. Stiles spent over a month in the hospital, and I _protected_ him from the fire, and you just fucking left. So tell me, how do you deserve it. _Why_ should you be an alpha when you abandoned us?”

She stares at him, her eyes wide and mouth open and--

“You know it was Kate. You know she’s behind it. And--she did something to Derek. She hurt him. But you haven’t killed her. What--I should never have let you remain Alpha as long as I did,” Stiles says, his stomach turning and Peter stares at his niece, disgust rippling across his features.

She’s still trying to explain when Stiles nods at him and turns away. Still trying to explain when Peter rips into her throat, and the bond between them, rotted and weak, finally snaps.

 

~*~

 

His mom--

His mom baffles him.

Sometimes she pulls him close, whispers secrets in his ear and pulls glowing fireflies from the air, magic made real to make him smile.

Sometimes she won’t go near him, and her gaze is cruel, her words cutting.

Sometimes he wakes, and her hand is pressed against his mouth, holding him still as she hisses, _“_ Its too much, you’re _dangerous_ , you’ll kill us all!”

He loves her, and he loves when she laughs with him, when they curl in his parents big bed and read while it rains, and her voice is rich and deep and magical.

He loves her and sometimes he hates her, because he remembers, he _remembers_ her pushing him forward, her fingers sharp prodding points in his shoulder as Talia Hale watched him with those cool, assessing eyes.

He loves her and he hates her but he’s never scared of her, even when his breath is caught in his throat, and his vision swims in his eyes, and he feels himself succumbing under her bruising grip, he isn’t scared of her, when she shoves him aside and he slams into the counter and stars burn behind his eyes, or when she brings the hoe down on his fingers in the garden and watches dispassionately as his blood soaks the dirt. He doesn’t fear her, not even when he bleeds and bruises and spits bloody teeth at her feet and her chest heaves from spending her rage on him.

He never fears her, because he can see the ways she fears him, in her eyes.

Peter, though. Peter _hates_ her.

 

~*~

 

The door creaks when it opens, and a snarl fills his mind, yanks him from sleep before rough hands pull him from the bed and Stiles _screams._

He’s fighting the grip on him, fighting to reach Peter, all of his strength and will twisting to glimpse the man in the bed, scarred and still and alone.

“ _Stop,”_ he screams and he throws power, mindless, furious, _killing_ power, and the door blows off its hinges with a noise loud enough the nurses down the hall scream.

“ _Stiles,”_ his dad shouts, dropping him and shaking him, hard enough his head snaps back and forth. “Stiles _stop!”_

“Da--Daddy?” Stiles asks, his voice impossibly young and John’s shoulders slump.

Deaton said, he said that without an anchor Stiles would drift, that he’d be more and more dangerous, and Stiles had dismissed it, ignored it, because he didn’t trust Deaton.

“Kiddo, you gotta come home now.”

“He’s alone, Daddy,” Stiles says, and he sounds so young. So small, tears sting his eyes. “He _needs_ me.”

John ducks down and meets Stiles gaze, his serious and sad. “Stiles, he needs you sane and safe, before you can help him.”

The thing is--he knows it’s true.

Knows he could have killed someone, fighting his dad just now.

He even know the screaming in his head, the crackling flames that never seemed to get better--they weren’t the product of a sane and healthy mind.

“I can’t leave him,” he whispers, eyes wide and wet.

“Let me help you, so you can help him.” John murmurs and Stiles--nods.

Peter is screaming rage and his magic is a wild, untamed thing, and he is so fucking _tired._

“Ok,” he says.

Later, as John leaves him in Eichen House, and the eerie screams of the insane and supernatural filled up the halls, he wonders what the actual fuck he was thinking.


	7. Chapter 7

Peter kisses him on a full moon night, in a dead woman’s bedroom. 

The air is warm, warmer than it was the last full moon, and he can count, still, the number of full moons he’s spent with Peter on one hand. 

He can feel, still, the ache of being  _ alone _ , of having only Peter’s madness and the golden bond he’d created when he was too young to understand what it meant.

Peter kisses him, on a full moon night, and his eyes are bright and blue and filled with fury and question, and he has just a moment, to think that this is fucking insane, and then he throws himself forward, into the kiss, into  _ Peter.  _

He kisses back, like he’s desperate for it because he  _ is.  _ Because this is everything he’s needed for the past three years, long and empty and lonely. 

Because Peter is  _ his _ , has been since he was a child, and even more so since the fire and Laura abandoned them. 

Because they’re broken, Stiles  _ knows _ they’re broken, but together, they’re more whole than he ever thought he’d get. 

So he throws himself into Peter, and licks into his mouth, whining. 

Peter makes a noise, something between a groan and a growl, shoves Stiles into the bed, and Stiles lets him, drags him closer, begs for more. 

It’s sharp fingers digging bruises into pale skin, sharp teeth biting marks into a graceful throat. It’s a claiming, a fight for dominance, and a willing submission, and it’s both of them. Even when Peter is working him open, Stiles is braced above him, a hand on his throat, the wolf pliant and claws digging into his hip. When Peter thrusts into him, Stiles bites his lip and rolls his hips, goading and begging.  

It’s messy and raw and animal, with gleaming eyes and magic crackling in the air, and it’s everything he wants with Peter. 

It’s everything he’s had with Peter, since he crept into Peter’s hospital room. 

It’s desperate and needy and he cries, when Peter bites him, and the older man slows, licks the tears away, murmurs soft and soothing as he strokes Stiles’ cock. 

“Peter,” Stiles gasps, his balls tightening and the bond flaring between them. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice gravel rough and rumbling against his skin. “I know.” 

He screams, when he comes, and Peter groans into his throat as he shudders through his orgasm, and Stiles sprawls across him after, Peter’s cock still half hard inside him, wrapped in his werewolf’s arms and the moon shining down on them. 

 

~*~

 

There are parts of being in a werewolf pack that Stiles knows isn’t  _ normal. _

The full moon runs, the snarling fights that are broken up by flashing eyes and white fangs. The way Derek will cock his head and listen to something Stiles can’t hear, and Peter will sniff out his feelings even before Stiles can say anything. 

But there are things he loves. 

After so long being a lonely child, he loves being dragged into puppy piles. 

“You don’t have to indulge them, little one,” Peter says, one night while Derek tugs Stiles from dinner. 

“I like it,” Stiles says, grinning and Peter nods. 

He does. He likes curling up with Derek and reading comics by flashlight, likes the heavy weight of the older boy across his legs while they watch a movie, even likes Cora slipping into the nest of blankets Derek makes. 

Derek sleepily complains, but he inevitably drags his baby sister between them, and presses his nose to the soft skin of her throat, falling asleep there while Cora traces pictures on Stiles’ arm with a long, bare claw. 

He likes falling asleep there, lulled by their steady breathing and grounding weight and the sure, steady knowledge that when he wakes, it will be in Peter’s arms. 

Derek used to complain, when he stumbled downstairs after a puppy pile, and found Stiles asleep in Peter’s lap on the couch, his uncle’s hand possessive on the boy’s hair. 

Once he wakes, slow and sleepy, while Derek fumes. 

“You can’t just  _ take  _ him. He’s ours too.” 

“You’re wrong, nephew. He isn’t yours. Your Alpha gave him to me to keep safe, and more than that--the Spark claimed me as his. Has he ever done that for you, little wolf?” There’s something mocking and cutting about the question, and Stiles pushes on the bond, pushes his dislike down it and Peter’s end warms with amusement. 

“I  _ hate _ you,” Derek hisses, and darts away. 

Peter resumes petting Stiles’ hair and Stiles feels drowsiness tugging at him. 

“Y’dinnt havta be mean,” he mumbles. 

“Better Derek learn now, little one, just what he is allowed.” He feels a warm pressure against his hair and then, softly. “Go to sleep, little spark.” 

He does, but even as he snuggles closer, he can’t stop thinking about it. About Derek and Peter’s words. 

Stiles thinks, a lot, about that strange morning, over the years after the fire. 

 

~*~

 

“You can’t be here,” the nurse says, firmly. She’s pretty, with bright red hair and a severe expression. 

“I just--my friend is here,” Stiles says, flashing a winning smile. 

The staff knows him, from all the time he spent here, when his mother was dying and they never argue with him. They give him cookies and pudding cups and send him on his way. 

It’s made the two years Peter’s been in the coma a helluva a lot easier. 

“ _ You _ can’t be here,” she says again, firmly and Stiles’ eyes narrow. He glances at the room just a few feet behind her, and nods. 

Falls back a few steps before spinning on his heel and leaving. Her sharp eyes follow him as he goes. 

It happens three more times, and once is Melissa of all fucking people, and Stiles stares at her, mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Go see Scott, Stiles. You shouldn’t be here, all the time. It’s--it’s not good for you.” 

And those words. 

He’s heard them before, so much, he can hear them when he dreams. 

_ Alone alone alone, where are you where are I what is where is  _ pack _ don’t leave don’t leavedon’tdon’tdon’t.  _

Stiles grits his teeth and smiles at her through the screaming in his head. 

“Thanks, Mel.”

She looks almost ashamed when he stalks out. 

The sheriff, though--he doesn’t look ashamed. He looks resigned, and a little angry, and that works for Stiles, as he storms into the station and slams his dad’s door behind him. “How  _ dare _ you,” he hisses. 

“It’s for your own good.”

“You have no fucking clue what’s good for me,” he snarls. “I  _ need _ my pack.” 

“Peter isn’t pack!” John shouts, suddenly. “He’s a burnt up husk who is too stubborn to die, Stiles, you  _ know _ that there’s no coming back from what happened to him.”

“What they  _ did _ to him.” Stiles shouts back. 

John rubs his eyes. “You cannot accuse someone of arson and murder because a voice in your head that belongs to a fucking coma patient  _ said so. _ ”

Stiles let his magic go, let his eyes flare golden and his bond swells, Peter’s anguished scream ripping through him. 

John doesn’t hear that. Maybe if he did, he’d fucking belief him. 

Or maybe, he’d find a way to ignore that too, Stiles thinks bitterly. 

“I do,” he whispers. “I  _ can. _ Because you know I’m not playing by the same rules as you are.” 

“Stiles,” John says. 

He sounds  _ tired _ and defeated. 

It’s been two years. Of course he sounds tired and defeated. 

“I contacted a few alphas. Satomi Ito and Kali. Deucalion hasn’t responded, but I didn’t think he would. The Cahils in the south have.”

Stiles freezes, ice in his veins, and he stares at his father, disbelief written across his face. “Dad, no--”

“The nemetons aren’t helping. Neither has Eichen. I don’t--I don’t know what to do. This is killing you, kid.”

“I  _ have _ a pack!” 

“You have a mind full of broken bonds and unanchored magic and a lot of dead werewolves. That’s not what your mother wanted. It’s not what Talia wanted.” 

“I won’t do it,” Stiles vows. “You  _ can’t _ make me.” 

“I know. But I can keep you from Peter, until you realize this is what’s best,” John says, quietly. 

Stiles stares at him, and he realizes, late, that there are tears on his cheeks. That he’s shaking. 

That the screaming in his mind is deafening, echoing worry and concern and not rage. 

“I  _ hate _ you,” Stiles chokes out, and bolts away. 


	8. Chapter 8

He’s alone, when an old man with filmy blue eyes and a kind smile stops him. “Can you point me to the principal's office, young man?” 

Stiles stares at Gerard Argent, and his warm dead smile. 

“Down the hall, left at the double doors,” Stiles says, and takes two steps backwards. “I’m late for class.” 

He can feel Gerard watching him, as he retreats, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, just ambles to class, and slides into his seat. Scott gives him a curious look. Allison hasn’t been in class all week, and his best friend is paying attention to him, more than he has in years. 

Scott has the worst fucking timing. 

He thinks it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he manages to keep his shit together, manages to not bolt, until the end of the day. Even then, he’s aware of the eyes watching him, so he slips into his Jeep and drives home. 

He was an open secret with the Hales--they didn’t go out of their way to announce the Spark being trained to be their emissary, but they didn’t  _ hide _ it, either. And hunters--they listened. The heard the whispered rumors. Gerard, especially. 

Stiles clumps up the stairs at home, and into his room, not at all surprised to find Peter sprawled on his bed. 

At least this time, he wasn’t bloody, so maybe he’d managed to get away with not needing to clean his sheets. 

“You’ve been on the verge of panic all day, darling. What happened?” 

“You know it’s dangerous to just sit in my room, creeperwolf. Dad--” 

“Your dad is at the station until midnight, and you are deflecting. Stiles.” 

He huffs. “Allison has been out of school for the past few days. And Gerard Argent was the school today.” 

Peter snarls, his gaze flaring red as he yanks Stiles into his lap. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No, dumbass. It was school, he wasn’t assaulting students. He was just doing surveillance.” 

“But he knew. He knew who you were.” 

“We knew that they would know who I was.” 

Peter rumbles, a displeased noise pressed into Stiles throat, and then nips, just enough that Stiles jolts against him. 

“I have homework,” he complains, when Peter arches up into him. 

“This is more fun,” Peter murmurs, licking up his throat. 

Stiles breathes a laugh and then catches his hair and yanks him back, just to see Peter’s eyes flare red. “Yeah, but you’d hate having an idiot for a emissary.” 

Peter goes still. “You--you’d be my emissary?” 

Stiles frowns. “Of course--Peter, I tied my soul to yours with fucking life force magic. I ripped Laura’s alpha spark away from her. I’m helping you avenge our pack. What--I won’t  _ be  _ your emissary. I  _ am _ your emissary.” 

Peter’s eyes don’t shift color but the want that flares in them is so hot and predatory Stiles shifts on his lap, and Peter rolls with it, presses him into the mattress and rumbles against his skin. “Say it,” he whispers against Stiles mouth. “Say it again.” 

Stiles smiles, and licks his lips, knowing how much it drives Peter crazy. The bond is blown wide, alight with relief and ecstatic joy, and vicious pride. “I’m yours, Alpha,” Stiles promises. 

Peter kisses him, almost bruisingly hard, and then shifts, jerking his jeans down. “Off,” he murmurs. “Off now.” 

Stiles thinks, he has a paper to write, and a bio experiment to finish, and Peter blowing him is always-- _ always-- _ gonna take priority to fucking homework. 

~*~ 

“Why don’t we have wards?” 

Stiles asks the question in the middle of dinner, and for a moment, no one even hears it. He’s still little, and he doesn’t always speak over the shouting werewolves. Peter hears him, he knows, because the wolf tips his head toward Stiles curiously. But Peter doesn’t count, because Peter  _ always _ hears him. 

He likes Peter, because Peter brings him the best books, books Deaton and Mama says are too dangerous for him, and sits quietly near him while he reads, explains what he doesn’t understand, and when neither of them know what something is--last week, they read about a kanima, and Peter had been as baffled as he was--he always finds out. 

Stiles  _ likes _ Peter, and he  _ trusts _ Peter, and Daddy says that’s important, because Peter will keep him safe, but Stiles has to trust him to do it. 

He clears his throat and pokes his brussel sprouts, and Peter nudges him with a firm stare. Grumbling he stabs one and says, again, “Why don’t we have wards?” 

This time, Peter growls, low and fierce, and Stiles smiles at he chews the brussels--Laura made them, and he doesn’t like her’s, they’re always too salty and soggy--as the pack turns to stare at them. 

At him. 

“I--why would we?” 

Stiles frowns. 

Some of the books Peter brings him--they’re not from packs. They’re  _ about _ werewolves. Once, when he was reading about how to dissect a werewolf without killing it, he’d cried, his tears silently soaking the paper, until he scrambled out of Peter’s lap and threw up in the wastebasket. 

“To protect us from hunters,” he says, patiently. He pokes at his food again and Peter clears his throat. Stiles takes a defiant bite of potatoes, because he  _ just _ ate brussels. 

“Why would you say that, Stiles?” Alpha Talia says. 

Stiles looks at her, anxiously and then turns to Peter, and whispers, “Does she not know about them?” 

Peter laughs, his eyes shining. Stiles loves that look--it’s the one Peter never gives anyone else in the pack, not even Cora. 

“She knows, little one.” 

“Peter,” Talia’s voice is sharp, sounds almost like Peter’s when he’s training with Stiles, and it makes him jerk, his head snapping up and eyes wide. “Can I have a word with you in my study.” 

Stiles slides down, and Talia makes an impatient noise. “Stiles, stay here.” 

“But--Peter doesn’t know about the wards,” Stiles protests, and Talia huffs. 

“Bring him, sister. He won’t hear anything he doesn’t already know,” Peter says, lazily, one hand on Stiles’ shoulder. His gold cord is warm and amused, like Stiles has done something that makes him proud, and it makes the little boy preen. 

As Talia argues about the sustainability of wards, telling Peter how much power they require, Stiles traces a rune on his skin and wonders if his wolf will be proud of him for this too. 

~*~ 

For a few nights, Stiles thinks the screams are the worst. 

They’re constant, a symphony of noise that never falters. Even when they do, for a few blessed hours in the dead of night, there’s the endless screaming in his mind, the golden bond that throbs with helpless fury and endless screams. 

He wakes to the scent of smoke and ash, and sleeps to the sound of screams, when he can sleep, and he thinks this madhouse was a horrible idea. 

And then he meets Brunski. 

“You killed Lorraine,” Stiles says, grinning, and the bond goes quiet, the screams still, and the orderly looks at him like he’s seen a ghost. 

Stiles giggles, and Brunski hip checks him into the wall. 

It gets worse. 

Drugs, drugs Stiles doesn’t remember his doctor proscribing. Brunski shoves him into walls, knocks him into trees, spills his food and once punches him in the face. 

Stiles understands now. 

It wasn’t a mild delusion. It was true. He can feel it, when Brunski comes close, the dead bodies that he created cling to him like a pile of chains. 

Sometimes, Stiles forgets he’s dangerous, and he relaxes. The second time he wakes up locked in a box in the basement, listening to the recordings of Brunski killing patients, he learns to stop relaxing. 

His dad visits and Stiles says, “I don’t need to be here.” 

“Stiles,” he says, quietly. “You tried killing yourself.” 

The thing is--Stiles knows it’s true. He can feel it, the scars on his skin that took too long to heal. They’re raised and bumpy and even with his magic to help heal, he’ll carry them forever. 

But he shakes his head. “It burnt, Dad.” 

“Kid,” John starts, his expression heartbreaking. 

“Dad it  _ burnt.  _ I wasn’t--I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was trying to stop the burning!” 

“You aren’t burning, kiddo.” 

Stiles  _ knows _ that, he does. He knows he hasn’t been burning since the fire, knows it’s been almost a year since he burnt. 

But he knows too, that when he sleeps, fire burns in his veins, knows that the bond burns golden and ringed with flames, and the screams aren’t his, but they  _ are. _

“Dad,” he whispers, and John leaves him there, shattered regret on his face. 

“Ms Morell will help you, Stiles. I promise she will.” 

Stiles sits on his bed, and he lets the heat of his golden bond wash over him, the crescendo of Peter’s fury burning through him, and he shivers under it. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Ms. Morell says, and he knows her, he’s always known her. 

She stood in front of him in the nemetons, the symbol etched into her shoulder terrifying and familiar, and her gaze coolly assessing. “Are you ready?” 

_ I’m sorry, Peter, _ he thinks. 

And then he buries the bond, buries it so deep the screams and the burning, the endless rage and scent of smoke--they clear. 

For the first time in a year, they clear and Stiles nods at her. “I’m ready.” 


	9. Chapter 9

He isn’t surprised, exactly, when his father calls. 

He gathers up his books, and notes, shoves everything in his bag and his feet in his shoes. There’s a salad in the fridge and he hums softly as he snags it and the homemade dressing he’s had chilling for a few hours. 

The station is quiet, and Jordan flashes him a grin as Stiles saunters in, pointing toward the office. 

He grew up here, as much as he did the Hale house, and it was a refuge, during the long years when Peter was trapped in his hospital and his mind, and Stiles was trapped in screaming madness. 

“Brought you dinner, daddio,” he announces, as he shoves the door open, and he pauses, eyes narrow as he stares at the man sitting in his seat. 

“Uh, sorry. Parrish didn’t say you were with anyone.” 

“Stiles, sit down.” 

It’s not his dad’s voice. It’s the Sheriff’s voice and it makes the hair on his arm stand up. 

He does as he’s told, but he’s moving slow and cautious, glancing repeatedly at Dr. Byers. 

The man is glaring, his face red and mouth pressed into a thin line, and Stiles huffs.

Fuck it. 

“Dinner,” he says, slapping the tupperware and baggie of grilled chicken down on his desk. “And don’t even think about going to the diner, I worked hard on that.” 

“Peter Hale is missing,” Dr. Byers says, abruptly and John huffs angrily. 

“Peter is catatonic,” Stiles says, the same thing they’ve been telling him for years, and his smile as he says it is sharp enough to cut glass. “How the hell did you manage to lose a catatonic patient?” 

“Stiles,” John says, cutting through the outraged noise the doctor is making. “Do you know anything about Peter’s sudden absence?” 

“Why would I know anything?” he asks, blandly. “I haven’t been by there since--last summer?” 

Dr. Byers scowls at him but the Sheriff is staring hard. “Son.” 

“Dad.” 

“If you know where he is--you have to tell us. Ok? He’s not just Peter. He’s the only survivor in a deliberate attack.” 

Stiles laughs. “I’ve been tell you for years he was in danger and you always said I was insane.  _ You _ banned me from the hospital. You want to know where Peter is? Ask someone who has access to him.” 

He shoves to his feet and his father’s quiet voice stops him at the door. “Stiles.” 

He glances back and meets worried blue eyes. “Don’t--be careful, whatever you do. Ok?” 

Stiles nods, a short little thing and he goes. He gets halfway home, before he digs out his phone and sends a text to an unsaved number.

 

_ >>they know.  _

 

~*~

 

Stiles knows that Peter is proud of him. His wolf never hesitates to tell him. He tells him in approving smiles, and a hand on his neck, in the way he watches, eyes warm, while Stiles figures something out. 

But that was at home. 

That was in Beacon Hills. 

Here--here pride is a harder thing to earn. 

Here, Peter is drawn aside by other packs, his attention clamored for, his smiles courted with single minded pursuit. 

Stiles sits next to Derek as the Conclave swirls around them, and he hates himself for wanting Peter’s attention. 

“You don’t have to stay with me,” he mutters and Derek glares down at him. Turns a page in his book, and Stiles huffs. 

The children from other packs don’t like him, much. 

Stiles would be bothered by it, but he’s used to other children disliking him. All of them do, except Derek. 

A pretty Alpha and her Emissary are talking to Talia, and she keeps laughing at Peter, fluttering her eyelashes and Stiles snorts, quietly. 

“She can hear you,” Derek hisses. 

“So?” Stiles snaps, and the Alpha twitches. Peter says something, and it twists her back to him. 

And abruptly, Stiles is done. He’s so angry, his skin is buzzing with magic waiting to explode out of him, and Peter is busy, so why-- _ why _ wait for him? 

“Let’s go,” he snaps and stomps into the forest. 

Derek follows, because Derek is predictable and content to follow. He will make an amazing Beta for Laura, one day. Stiles wishes that thought didn’t annoy him as much as it does. 

“What are we doing?” Derek asks, trotting until he’s a few steps in front of Stiles, holding branches aside from the younger boy. 

“Magic,” Stiles says. 

They hit the beach and a few of the other kids look up. Stiles thinks maybe they can sense the magic crackling off his skin. Peter says he smells different, when his spark is bright and full.

“Wanna see something cool?” Stiles asks, thinking about the book he read to Peter last week, about fulgurite. He thinks about the beautiful pictures Peter showed him while he sat in the wolf’s lap and stared, wide eyed and fascinated. Magic crackles along his fingers, lightning dancing. 

“Sure,” Derek says and Stiles closes his eyes. 

He reaches for the bright sharp magic that burns in his belly and the tingle of electricity in the clouds that have been threatening all night. 

Someone screams as Stiles clenches his hand and Derek trembles next to him as lightning slams into the sand. He twitches and does it again, and again, and again. 

The scent of burning sand and electric ozone overrides the rain that’s coming down and he grins when he opens his eyes, falling into the wet sand to dig. 

The fulgurite is coarse and delicate and beautiful in his hands and Derek makes a wordless noise of shock and awe as he kneels down to stare at it. 

“What’s that?” he whispers and Stiles grins. 

“It’s lightning.” 

He looks up when he hears someone, their voice shaking, demand, “Who  _ is _ that?” 

It’s the pretty Alpha who was flirting with Peter. Peter, who is staring at him with bright eyes and a wide proud smile, something possessive and wild about him that makes Stiles preen. 

“That’s Stiles,” Peter says, simple and proud and Stiles curls around his fulgurite as every pack on the West coast stares down at him, seven and wet haired and wide, pleased smirk. 

Peter holds him that night, in his lap, while the other Alphas skirt by, eyes never quite settling on him, and he asks, “What’s wrong?” 

“They’re afraid of you, little one,” Peter says, and he’s almost preening, he’s so proud.

Stiles doesn’t understand why, but Peter’s arms around him and pride in his ear are enough that he nods, and falls asleep there, his trophy held careful in his little hands. 

 

~*~

 

He drops lacrosse and his grades plummet. He is constantly bent over a book, and when he’s not, he’s in the backyard, mumbling spells. 

The first time John catches him slicing his hand open, Stiles thinks he’ll do it--he’ll do what Talia and his mother had always fought against, what Peter had guarded him against. 

He thinks it’s only Stiles shaking and falling on the floor curled around himself and sobbing that stops his father from dragging him to Deaton to have his spark bound. 

“No more blood magic,” John snarls and Stiles nodded, so willing to agree it didn’t even occur to him that he was giving something up. 

It didn’t matter. A week later he exhausted the black spell book he’d bought off a voodoo witch in the Quarter--blood magic wasn’t going to bring back Peter. 

Blood magic wouldn’t, but Stiles wasn’t a druid or a voodoo witch, or even a darach. 

He was a  _ spark _ . 

It took him almost six months to realize he wasn’t going to will Peter back to health--the third time he tried, Peter had moved a finger, and Stiles spent a week feverish and telling his dad he had the flu, and he decided that Peter would be really pissed if he got himself killed, trying to keep Peter alive. 

Still. 

There were things he could do. 

He couldn’t  _ fix _ Peter, but he could make it easier for the wolf to fix himself. 

Stiles studied his pile of books, magic and knowledge dripping at his fingertips and nodded to himself, humming as he began again, looking this time for wards and protection. 


	10. Chapter 10

He stumbles into the house, and freezes at the sight of Scott. 

His friend is at the table, fingers drumming impatiently as he waits, and he perks up as Stiles enters the kitchen. 

“Scott,” Stiles says, slowly. “What are you doin’ here, man?” 

“I have a plan,” Scott says, leaning forward eagerly, his smile impossibly bright as he spreads wrinkled papers on the table. 

Stiles can see a few names and logos upside down and his heart sinks. 

The trip was his dad’s idea, and something Stiles had agreed to because he was lonely and nothing made sense. 

And maybe he was still lonely and very little made sense. But this---this doesn’t. 

“Scotty, buddy,” Stiles starts and Scott glares at his papers. 

“You promised me this,” he hisses. “You said--” 

“I said a lot of shit,” Stiles says, too tired to even muster up anger in response to Scott’s fury. “I can’t even remember most of the shit I said.” 

“You’re going to stay here and be the lapdog for a man who doesn’t even know you exist,” Scott says, and Stiles…

Stiles sighs. 

There is a world between where he is and what Scott knows and it’s not fair to get angry at him for  _ not _ knowing. 

But it doesn’t make his judgements any easier to bear. 

“I’m not like you, Scott,” he says, finally. “College, a white picket fence. Two point five in the suburbs with a PTA wife? It’s not who I am.” 

Scott stares at him for a long time, and then shakes his head. “Stiles, you have no idea who you are. You’ve been Peter Hale’s for so long, you never had a chance to know who you could be without him.” 

 

~*~

 

It happens on summer solstice, in the nemetons. 

He’s been there for three weeks, and most of that time, he spends with Marin Morrell, with the other druids who teach him meditation and control and how to summon the elements. They teach him the laws emissary and druids are bound to follow, the importance of balance and  _ watching _ , teach him wards and runes and whispered spells and when each are appropriate to use. 

They teach him about the lengths his spark can reach, and when they can’t quite hit that limit, they pull away, reluctant to teach him more. 

Stiles likes the nemetons, even if he thinks the druids are ridiculous and old fashioned. He likes the scent of trees and magic and the ancient awareness in the forest when he gets near the massive stump. 

He likes, most, that Peter presses near him, always. 

They share a tiny hut, and Peter sleeps on the bed next to him, furclad and watchful. He leans against the giant wolf as he studies, reading books of lore and magic that Peter brought from home. They sit under the stars and Peter tells him about the other packs, and the Hunter clans, and the history the druids rarely speak of. 

Talia and the druids would protect him, from the ugly realities of their world. 

Peter has never felt the need. 

The night of the solstice, Stiles walks with the others, and Peter pads at his side, on two feet and twitchy in his skin, but steady every time Stiles peers up at him. 

He is twelve years old and has spent six years, half his life, preparing to be the emissary to the Hale pack, and he trembles a little, as he stands before the druids, now. 

Peter is steady at his back, and that more than anything makes him extend his arm. 

He doesn’t scream, although Peter makes a noise, a pained whine, when the brand sears into his skin. 

He doesn’t scream and he shrugs off the pain leeching hand on his shoulder. 

There is strength in pain, power to be gained from it, and he  _ wants _ that, wants this mark infused with all the strength and power his voluntary pain can give him. 

Later, Peter asks him, when the druids have gone and he’s drowsy next to his ‘wolf, leaning against the stump. 

“What is it?” Peter murmurs. 

Stiles offers up his wrist, thoughtlessly, and Peter’s eyes glow for a moment, as he cradles the fragile flesh in his hand. 

The triskelion is messy, cracked and bleeding from the brand, but it’s clear, and Stiles voice is steady, when he says, “Yours.” 

Peter watches him, and Stiles thinks that shouldn’t be strange, shouldn’t cause the stir of nerves and butterflies in his belly. 

“Little one,” Peter says, hoarsely. “You are so brave.” 

Stiles smiles then, pleased, and leans over to brush a lingering kiss on his cheek. 

 

~*~

 

The first time Stiles kills someone, he’s in the Preserve on a full moon night. He can feel Peter in his head, a furious rage, a constant  _ burn _ and it feels familiar. 

The man reeks of booze and unwashed sweat, and Stiles closes his eyes as an unwanted body presses against him, pushing him into the dirt of the forest. 

“Stop,” he mutters, and a thick tongue shoves into his mouth. 

Fury crests in his mind, possessive rage boiling over as a howl echoes through the night and he smiles as his unwanted companion pulls away. 

Smiles as he shoves claws deep, deep  _ deep _ , ripping open his throat. 

_ Satisfaction _ rushes over him, like a torrent of blood and Stiles laughs, giddy in it. 

Later, he crawls through the window and into Peter’s bed, blood long washed away and the taste of another man scrubbed from his mouth. He still feels  _ wrong,  _ dirty and raw and exposed, the same way he’s felt since he walked into that dirty bar on the edge of town and caught Unger’s eye. 

He curls up next to Peter and presses against him, rubbing his face into Peter’s chest and feels an answering rumble in the back of his mind, the place that he knows Peter lives. 

“Hey, big bad,” he murmurs, sighing and hugging him tight. “How’s the full moon treating you?” 

Peter doesn’t answer, but his eyes glow, briefly. 

Stiles smiles and settles against him to sleep, the room lit by the eerie glow of blue veins tracing up from where Stiles was gripping Peter’s wrist. 


End file.
